Rambling Giantess
An interesting op-ed piece on why Democrats can’t seem to swing Southern and Western states. Fairly interesting. Short, too.
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/03/opinion/03kris.html
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Today’s a slow day in Blog Land for me. I’m not entirely too sure what I should write about. I was thinking about penning an in-depth expose on the futility of the reheating directions on pizza boxes, but it seems limited at best. I mean, I could go into the whole cold pizza thing and how everyone loves cold pizza. Unless, of course, it’s more than a couple of days old in which case it should immediately be thrown out. Preferably aimed at irritating neighbors who insist on playing Mariachi music at four in the morning. But if you can't do that, at least do your colon a favor and just throw it out.
To wit.
So, that said, what am I going to write about?
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Perhaps a beagle haiku in honor of my dog? Why not?
“
Brown, black, white and tan
Large brown eyes plead for jerky
Resulting in crap.
“
How’s that? Pretty good, eh? Really grabs you and doesn’t let go, I know.
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My hair grows disturbingly fast sometimes. The last haircut I was virtually scalped; I resembled a bulbous cocktail onion who just served his time as a Special Forces Marine or something. Needless to say, it was bad.
Here’s how the whole thing played out. SockHobbit and I go walk in to the HairCutHut and diligently ask how long the wait is. The greeter, through the hissing, sputtering gap that had taken the place of her top two teeth, responded that it “would be fifteen minutes or so.” I was happily satisfied; I’m not the most patient guy, especially in HairCut places.
While thumbing through a dated issue of Sports Illustrated (“3 Peat! The Bulls Win!”) I notice that the clientele at this particular joint is severely lacking in, well, for lack of a better word, class. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am in no way high and mighty or anything like that. I forced my mom to change the place we’re going for my sister’s birthday because it’s a coat and tie place. I drive a Taurus. I wear jeans everyday. I own one suit (that doesnt' even fit, by the way).
Anyhow, cut (pun somewhat intended) to me sitting in the chair, obviously uncomfortable at the sight of my “stylist.” Her giant legs are stuffed in what might have been actual fishnet stockings; seriously these things could net a school of mackerel in no time. Everything about her - hair, complexion, eyes, thick fingers – seems to ooze black and sweat. If ever I was intimidated, it was then.
GIANTESS: WHAT NUMBER DO YOU USE?
Me: Um…number? Oh, right…uh, two, I think.
GIANTESS: THAT’S PRETTY SHORT; ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT IT THAT SHORT?
Me: Uh…no…heh?
GIANTESS: …WE’LL TRY A ‘THREE’
Me (meekly): Uh, er..okay.
She then lumbers her lacquered frame over the counter, aggressively opens the “clipper attachment” drawer, rummages around until she seems satisfied with one, and then wills her Gothic mass over to behind my head. With a loud THWACK, she fires on the clippers and begins to literally jab at my head. Apparently the concept of a comb was either lost on her or lost in her, because there were none to be found. The Giantess seemed outwardly nervous, too. She would shift from side to side, foot to foot, and repeatedly cock her head every time she took out a big, awkward chunk of hair, as if to say, “Huh. That’s interesting…that doesn’t look right at all...Oh well.”
Needless to say, after forty minutes (FORTY MINUTES! UNHEARD OF AT A HAIRHUT), she booms over-assertively, “HOW DOES IT LOOK?” Having neither the courage nor the masochism to continue the torture, I lied and said, “Wonderful. Just…wonderful.” And tried to smile as I realized that what I said could have been construed as something other than a pleased compliment. Before she could consume me, however, SockHobbit had already paid and we were out of there.
So, it should go without saying that I vowed never to go back to a JiffyCut, QuickHack, or anything else for the rest of my life.
And yesterday, I kept that vow alive by going to an actual salon (barber? Stylist? I don’t know…it just wasn’t any kind of Cut’N’Go).
I was terrified.
This was a first for me, going into a place that doesn’t hold job fairs at the trailer park across the street.
I guess I was envisioning snooty, trendily dressed people who seem outwardly depressed at having the misfortune of living. Actually, I think this is how a lot of people view advertising creatives. Anyhow…
But what can I say? I had a great time. Crazy, huh?
(I’m still a little weary letting my friends know, though; I think they’d have a field day with this one) .
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/03/opinion/03kris.html
+
Today’s a slow day in Blog Land for me. I’m not entirely too sure what I should write about. I was thinking about penning an in-depth expose on the futility of the reheating directions on pizza boxes, but it seems limited at best. I mean, I could go into the whole cold pizza thing and how everyone loves cold pizza. Unless, of course, it’s more than a couple of days old in which case it should immediately be thrown out. Preferably aimed at irritating neighbors who insist on playing Mariachi music at four in the morning. But if you can't do that, at least do your colon a favor and just throw it out.
To wit.
So, that said, what am I going to write about?
+
Perhaps a beagle haiku in honor of my dog? Why not?
“
Brown, black, white and tan
Large brown eyes plead for jerky
Resulting in crap.
“
How’s that? Pretty good, eh? Really grabs you and doesn’t let go, I know.
+
My hair grows disturbingly fast sometimes. The last haircut I was virtually scalped; I resembled a bulbous cocktail onion who just served his time as a Special Forces Marine or something. Needless to say, it was bad.
Here’s how the whole thing played out. SockHobbit and I go walk in to the HairCutHut and diligently ask how long the wait is. The greeter, through the hissing, sputtering gap that had taken the place of her top two teeth, responded that it “would be fifteen minutes or so.” I was happily satisfied; I’m not the most patient guy, especially in HairCut places.
While thumbing through a dated issue of Sports Illustrated (“3 Peat! The Bulls Win!”) I notice that the clientele at this particular joint is severely lacking in, well, for lack of a better word, class. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am in no way high and mighty or anything like that. I forced my mom to change the place we’re going for my sister’s birthday because it’s a coat and tie place. I drive a Taurus. I wear jeans everyday. I own one suit (that doesnt' even fit, by the way).
Anyhow, cut (pun somewhat intended) to me sitting in the chair, obviously uncomfortable at the sight of my “stylist.” Her giant legs are stuffed in what might have been actual fishnet stockings; seriously these things could net a school of mackerel in no time. Everything about her - hair, complexion, eyes, thick fingers – seems to ooze black and sweat. If ever I was intimidated, it was then.
GIANTESS: WHAT NUMBER DO YOU USE?
Me: Um…number? Oh, right…uh, two, I think.
GIANTESS: THAT’S PRETTY SHORT; ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT IT THAT SHORT?
Me: Uh…no…heh?
GIANTESS: …WE’LL TRY A ‘THREE’
Me (meekly): Uh, er..okay.
She then lumbers her lacquered frame over the counter, aggressively opens the “clipper attachment” drawer, rummages around until she seems satisfied with one, and then wills her Gothic mass over to behind my head. With a loud THWACK, she fires on the clippers and begins to literally jab at my head. Apparently the concept of a comb was either lost on her or lost in her, because there were none to be found. The Giantess seemed outwardly nervous, too. She would shift from side to side, foot to foot, and repeatedly cock her head every time she took out a big, awkward chunk of hair, as if to say, “Huh. That’s interesting…that doesn’t look right at all...Oh well.”
Needless to say, after forty minutes (FORTY MINUTES! UNHEARD OF AT A HAIRHUT), she booms over-assertively, “HOW DOES IT LOOK?” Having neither the courage nor the masochism to continue the torture, I lied and said, “Wonderful. Just…wonderful.” And tried to smile as I realized that what I said could have been construed as something other than a pleased compliment. Before she could consume me, however, SockHobbit had already paid and we were out of there.
So, it should go without saying that I vowed never to go back to a JiffyCut, QuickHack, or anything else for the rest of my life.
And yesterday, I kept that vow alive by going to an actual salon (barber? Stylist? I don’t know…it just wasn’t any kind of Cut’N’Go).
I was terrified.
This was a first for me, going into a place that doesn’t hold job fairs at the trailer park across the street.
I guess I was envisioning snooty, trendily dressed people who seem outwardly depressed at having the misfortune of living. Actually, I think this is how a lot of people view advertising creatives. Anyhow…
But what can I say? I had a great time. Crazy, huh?
(I’m still a little weary letting my friends know, though; I think they’d have a field day with this one) .
posted by The Haiku Review at 4:52 PM
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